The Seashell, the Sea, the Waves on my Beach
by Pynnelopi
Summary: The 65th Games through the frightened eyes of young Annie Cresta...  and her realization of the deranged world that is Panem.
1. Chapter 1

**PART I **

**ENTER ANNIE…(AND FINNICK)**

**To be continued...  
**

**DISCLAIMER: OBVIOUSLY, I'M NOT SUSANNE COLLINS, AND I AM HIGHLY REMORSEFUL OF THAT FACT. **

**ENJOY**

It's reaping day. I acknowledge this fact in much the same way that I know when I'm about to receive a particularly nasty punishment. It's inevitable, something I've got to face. But that doesn't change the absolutely true fact that I am terrified out of my wits, just like I always am on Reaping Day. Just like all of the kids from twelve to eighteen are in all twelve of the districts across Panem. These thoughts, however horrifying they may be, are the ones that grace my mind as I drag myself out of the ocean. . The ocean that is my mother, my father, my grandparents. In its rushing tides, it contains my ancestry, and the dry sands of the beach are my siblings.

I don't bother to dress for the Reaping, I just walk to the town square in a light cotton shirt and my bathing suit. This is District 4, home of the ever infamous Finnick Odair, and no one cares if you're wearing slightly less than what is traditional in some of the more conservative districts. I don't want to get dressed up, anyways.

I know my hair is salty and unbrushed, my eyes wild with the pleasure of the ocean's torrents. I attract a couple of stares as I take my place among the other girls my age, most of them have dressed in their finest clothes. To me, wearing finery while attending the Reaping is obnoxious. No one will remember your face unless you're chosen as a tribute, in which case fancy clothing won't do much to improve your situation.

Although, of course, appearances do leave their own impact on the games. Anyone who's grown up seeing a half – naked Finnick on the television screen everyday has no excuse to forget that. It's doubtful he would've stood a chance without the bronze hair, bright green eyes, and perfect golden coppery build that drew so many capitol sponsors to him.

The man in person, one of this year's mentors, sits proudly atop a makeshift stage, enjoying the luxuries of being the most attractive, desired person in the country. He's dressed (if you could call it that) in his customary evergreen suit, which happens to be missing a few essential pieces, such as the shirt. I wonder, absently, if he's ever felt regret behind his strong, careless façade, or if that face of his has ever been truly twisted with anguish and agony. I reminisce on his games, in which he was showered with gifts from sponsorships, securing a trident that was deadly when wielded in his arms. I consider the oddity, the obscurity, and the downright hideousness of a country that falls desperately in love with a fourteen year old boy to the point where they would exploit him for every moment he had. How people of both genders, and all ages, from everywhere swooned at the sight of the fourteen year old "man" who had conquered the odds and survived the Hunger Games. I contemplate whether he considers himself responsible for the tributes, who are really just children, who have been slaughtered under his responsibility.

Yes, I decide. I think perhaps, if Finnick truly loves the sea the way we all know he does, the way any self-respecting fisherman's child does, he must have some form of decency hidden beneath the public image. Public images are everything once it's time for the games again: Wendolyn Marks, our District's host, is the perfect embodiment of that truth. Her curled hair has been dyed an ostentatious shade of orange, with lips and tattoos to match. The way the sun glints off of it, with my subtle ocean in the background…it appears even more gaudy. How must we appear to the citizens of the capitol, who're always painted a rainbow of neon hues, when they see us on television? Our dull, natural faces and unaltered bodies must look boring and lifeless compared to the colors and shapes of the capitol. But then again, Finnick has obviously made short work of capturing their hearts.

I play with a strand of my long, dark hair, comparing the ebony and walnut strands to the orange of Wendolyn's. I imagine the way bleaches and chemicals could burn away its salty, oceanic color, turning me into one of the chameleons who wander the streets of the capitol. I wonder whether I could ever find a place within the capitol, whether I could ever be sane in a place as big and diverse as the capitol.

"Annie Cresta," says a distant voice, breaking into my thoughts, interrupting my hallucinatory imaginings of capitol grandeur.

I look up, startled, forgetting where I am as I attempt to identify the voice. Who was looking for me? "Yes?" I ask shyly.

"Congratulations, Annie Cresta," says the voice, and this time I realize it belongs to Wendolyn. "You're the new District 4 tribute."

"What?" I ask. While my world may always have a somewhat surreal tint to it, I feel as though I'm drowning now, and the real world, which I'd barely grasped before, even, is far above me and I can't reach it. Everything has been flipped around, and I can't tell which way's up. Because I know it's what they want me to do, I take slow, careful steps toward the stage. I look at the camera, it follows me, its lens like the giant eye of a dragon, or a snake. It's staring me down, waiting for me to glance away, and I'm frightened. Reptiles. Giant eyes. This snake's eye camera is following me, I realize. I hide my face in my dark, wavy hair, thanking it for being there when I needed it like so few things are in my life.

The boy tribute is called. I don't know who, I didn't bother to find out. I pray he isn't someone I know, and I pray that he isn't someone who I don't know. All I know is that I'm walking, and it's crowded and to hot, and a strong hand guides me.

Chapter 2

That hand belongs to Finnick Odair. It having finally occurred to me that I was curious as to the beautiful hand's owner, I had looked up, curious, and found those two deep, swirling sea green eyes staring back down and into mine.

Embarrassed, I quickly ducked my head, hiding my face from view. I could feel his eyes burning into me, trying to interpret me, the way a fisherman interprets the sky for a change in weather. I am not a cloud, I decide. They are fearsome and grey and large and so powerful…and it's already been proven today that I am powerless. Complete slave of that one piece of paper in that dreaded glass ball…like a lottery straight out of hell. I wish I were a cloud, free to come and go as I wished, float, rain, storm, precipitate, snow, cycle, without being controlled by the people around me. I wish I were an uncontrollable force of nature.

Now I'm on a train. I didn't know; I had to ask an attendant to find out for sure. We're going to the capitol, and I remember it's for the Games. I'm going to starve, probably kill someone, either be stripped of my dignity or have it handed to me on a shining platter. Of course in the latter case, then I would have to swallow it. Whole. Like an octupus.

I confuse myself with reality and obscurity, hoping I still know what's true and what's not. I try to ground myself, but all I see are a pair of man's hands which are always guiding me to where I need to be. I know now that they belong to Finnick. I want to trust them, but I can't. I don't know where they come from. Quite frankly, I know nothing now but the fact that I need the ocean. I need it, like I never knew I would need it until I left it.

Later, the hands guide me to a room. There's a shower, with several buttons. I turn the water on and listen to the comforting sound it makes, but I don't get wet. Knowing the water's there is enough. I lay down on my bed, enjoying both the comforting pitter patter and the fact that I'm wasting capitol resources. I decide that while I'm alive, I will take back as much as I can of what the capitol has stolen from my people, my ocean.

Outside my door, I hear voices. One's low and silky, a seductive purr that probably comes from years of practice. This voice is immediately classified as Finnick Odair's. Another voice must belong to Mags, the kindly older woman who's also slated to supervise our massacre this year.

"….not entirely stable, Finnick. Don't destroy yourself over her."

"…just shocked. Maybe she's in denial."

"You could ask her."

The door clicks open and swings in toward me on well oiled hinges, probably seen to by the toga wearing Avoxes who tend us like the servants of Atlantis. I see Finnick, thinking he could be the King of Atlantis, wielding a trident, with a mermaid tail, protecting his little schools of fish. Of course, he hasn't done an excellent job with the little fish he's supposed to bring back from the Hunger Games. I scoot to the center of my bed, pulling the light cotton shirt I've got on over my knees. Finnick, who's also managed to misplace his suit jacket as well as his shirt now, sits on the side I'd been previously occupying. The sheets are rumpled, and I wish I could chase him off so I could straighten them. Instead of struggling with the odd obsessive impulse, I just look him in the eyes. I see they're green, strong, and everything promised by his reputation, but also that they're soft. Considerate. And from those eyes I demand answers.

"Annie Cresta…Annie," Finnick murmurs. I don't know what he wants to tell me, and so I just wait. Trying to be patient. Patience is not my specialty, my mind tends to wander as I envisage various oddities, which typically have very little to do with the original topic. The memory of a goldfish.

"Mags is letting me mentor you. Usually she mentors the girl, but I asked for a special change this year." I continue to stare at him begrudgingly. He hasn't told me what he wants to yet. Finnick Odair, the man of many mysteries. I wait for him to elaborate on his statement.

"Because…I don't know why. But I think I can help you. And I'm sorry." I realize that I don't understand Finnick, and probably never will. I relax my position, now, though, beginning to realize that he genuinely cares. He better watch himself, or this could damage his capitol reputation. Imagine, the shock of all those men and women, when they realized that the great, godlike Finnick Odair had come down to earth, merely on the concerns of one mortal.

"You're special, Annie," he says to me, and touches my hand. It's white next to his dark one. I contemplate all of the times people have told me I'm special. My mother. My teacher. My older friends.

"Special Annie," they would say. Not crooning, like Finnick, but still fondly. I was never much curious as to what the hidden double meaning behind those words was.

I wish I was special like Finnick, not special like me, Annie. I want to be special in a spectacular way, a history changing way. Special like an amazing, unique creature.

Once again, his voice interrupts my fantasies.

"I need you to talk to me, Annie," whispers Finnick. His face is very close to my ear. "I need you to talk so I can protect you."

I don't want to hear about this. I cup my hand on my neck, just below my ear, so that I can block some of the sound without appearing rude. It occurs to me that the sound my hand makes when it's over my ear is like my ocean, that the sound imitates the roaring noise made by the push and pull of the tides. Like little kids, when they pick up seashells to hear the ocean inside. God, I want a seashell right now.

"Annie?" Finnick says. He expects me to answer him now. Too bad I can't remember what the question was. I just look at his green eyes again, and see that they're more of a teal. Like my ocean. And his firm, bronze skin is like the sand that the water sometimes frolics with.

"You're a seashell," I say dumbly. He looks taken aback, but I also detect a hint of victory in his eyes. At least he got a few words out of me.

"I haven't heard that one before," he says, laughing good naturedly.

Suddenly I feel a pang of remorse. This boy – man – is trying to keep me alive. I ought to give him something to work with. "Finnick, I can swim," I say. I like the way his name feels in his mouth, sounds in my voice.

He smiles. "That's good, Annie. That's a good place to start."

I'm proud to please him.

"I can sew."

He smiles. "That's good. I really want you to come back, Annie." He strokes my forehead, then gets up to leave.

"Bye, Finnick," I say, not sure that he heard my quiet voice or not.

I consider Finnick Odair again. He won the games when he was only fourteen, and even then he was coveted by both men and women alike in the capitol for his exceptionally good looks and athletic build. Since then, he's managed to create the most scandalous reputation of anyone in all of Panem, let alone anyone under twenty. And yet, somehow these facts don't match his character. The Finnick I've seen, the Finnick who's my mentor, has been caring. Responsible, even, if a little conceited, but nothing like the Playboy of Panem he's made out to be. It's as if there are two Finnicks, the one I meet in private, and the seductive beast who struts before the cameras. And I can't help wondering if there's something more to the story than what meets the eye. It's as if I'm missing a key piece of the puzzle.


	2. Chapter 2

SEASHELL, II

FINNICK ODAIR & ANNIE CRESTA

ENTER HALI, TINDON, AND LYME

WELCOME TO THE CAPITOL, ANNIE.

**A/N: Annie and Finnick get a little closer still, Annie struggles with the media and the other tributes. To my beloved readers: if you like it, hate it, or even decided to read it all the way through, I would reeeaaally appreciate a review everynow and then. =) Advice will only serve to make me a better writer. Oh, and all that stuff about disclaimers, that too. I don't own the Hunger Games, this is just my own little reconstruction. **

The train is pulling into a station. It occurs to me that I'll have to face an audience again. My previous attempt at that endeavor was less than successful. The sensation reminded me oddly of drowning, the time I'd stayed under too long and my lungs began to ache for air and my vision spotted. My breath comes in quick, short gasps. I'm terrified.

The door to my compartment on the train is swung back dramatically, and I'm exposed to a sea of colors and hues that would only befit a birthday cake. This is not a healthy sea. This sea is polluted by countless chemicals and thoughts and actions and words that I can't sort through, that make it into that perplexing swirl of hues. I can feel myself sinking under, my clarity of thought slipping away, as I stare out into that sea of color.

Then Finnick Odair is by my side once again, supporting me, hauling me out from the dangerous waters that I had been treading. I was briefly distracted by the way the muscles in his arm flexed slightly as he pulled me in toward him, of the way his pectorals looked against the rough cotton of his thin, tight jacket. I wondered why he didn't wear a shirt with it. But for the moment, I was eternally grateful to my rescuer. Finnick. The seashell.

"Hold on tight, Annie," he whispers in my ear, turning his head carefully so the cameras won't pick it up. He escorts me to the car we'll take to the remake center, one arm around my shoulders, the other grasping my white hand tight. I'm shaking, I feel as though I'm about to be swept off by an under tow. I recall the day when I was five, my father holding my shoulders firmly as he shows me how to swim parallel to the shore after I'd been pulled out by the rip tide. I had been terrified, treading water, shouting, tasting salty ocean water and tears, but then my father had come to my rescue, pulled me out of the water and on to the safety of his fishing boat.

"Swim like this, Annie dear, parallel to the beach." he had said, showing me with his fingers. I had nodded, not really understanding at the time, but knowing that I was safe now. For a moment, I can almost feel the warm western sun on my shoulders before I'm swept back into the reality of the capitol and all of its flashing lights.

Whether it's me or Finnick, we attract hundreds, maybe thousands of bug eyed cameras. They follow us, lenses blinking, trying to capture as much tabloid gossip as possible. I self consciously sweep my hair in front of my face, hiding myself, and Finnick pulls me in to his chest, where I'm protected from those greedy cameras. I cup my hands around my ears, trying to remember the sound of the ocean rushing up against the shore.

Finally, we make our way to the imposing glass doors of the remake center. Finnick pries my fingers off of his jacket, carefully holding my head so that I'm forced to look straight into his eyes.

"Do what they say, Annie," he murmurs. "Even if you don't like it, it's for your own good."

His words, though said in the gentlest, most comforting way, only make me nervous.

And then those fears attack me again as a flock of brightly colored people descends on me. They pluck and cut, buff and polish. I'm like one of those smooth rocks that I sometimes find washed up on the shore of my beach. They've been rubbed smooth by the constant tossing and turning of the sea, making them soft and round. The rough waves wash any imperfections off of their sides, until, like me, they're a blank slate, ready to be painted.

Now I meet my stylist, who's called Drin. He's taken a few steps toward self altercation, which are most likely considered subtle in the capitol but would be considered flamboyant and garish at home. He paints me with ghostly makeup in shades of gray and green and blue, colors that remind me of the sea after the storm. Chains and charms are woven into my long, dark, and wavy hair, and I'm dressed in a loose gown the color of the sea at dusk. My hair tangles around my arms and into the drapery of the dress, and I'm carefully positioned like a doll beside the male tribute on our chariot. It suddenly strikes me as funny that I still can't remember this boy's name, and he may be the last person I see alive.

Before our chariot leaves to parade around the president's mansion, Finnick comes to me. "Chin up, Annie," he whispers. "Be strong." I watch his beautiful green eyes as they take in my makeup and gown, and the approving nod he gives Drin. He squeezes my hand before we have to leave.

Immediately, I'm terrified. I need to return to my ocean, I'm drowning in this unknown sea of people. I'm like the fish they hang in shop windows, or place on ice to sell at the wharf. Up on display, a hunk of meat to be bought and exploited. Eaten, like the silvery scaled tuna that I used to find so fascinating. Who's bluish scales always contrasted in the most gruesome way with their crimson blood. I shrink into myself, hiding under my hair and in the folds of the dress. I try to escape this mental prison, return to my sea, but then I remember Finnick's words.

"Be strong, Annie." The words reverberate inside my skull, and they become a mantra. It's not the words I'm remembering, it's the sound of Finnick's voice when he said them. The way it made me feel like he believed in me.

I lift my face up, allow myself to open up to the endless waves of cameras and people surrounding me. I stand tall and strong, remembering that I know how to swim, that I can whirl my way through this sea of frightening people. I look up, and see my face projected on a huge plasma screen above the heads of all the people. A gigantic image of my face fills the screen, and I look amazing, like a sea ghost or a water spirit. I look….frightening. Haunted. And now I understand the crazy musings of Drin, and I can accept them, appreciate them. He's given me something to depend on, he's made me stand out.

Soon, my carriage comes to a rest, and President Snow's face covers the giant television. "Let the games begin," he announces. "And may the odds be in your favor!

When I see Finnick again, he's pleased as well. "Good, Annie, really good," he murmurs, lifting me carefully down from the carriage. I'm glad for the comfort and warmth that he provides, and I allow myself to melt into his arms. He carries me to the training center, where I'm gently placed in a bed with silky sheets and fluffy pillows. Luxurious, phenomenal, but nothing compared to the way those gentle waves could rock me to sleep.

"Goodnight, Annie," he whispers to me.

I spend the night thinking about Finnick Odair again. I sleep on and off as rueful thoughts about my misconceptions of my mentor swim through my head. He's cared for me, protected me, like a parent but not. I toss and turn, tangling the sheets around my knees, trying to get a grip on my reality – it's been so far away lately. These feelings and ideas about Finnick, they aren't a part of it. They can't be. He isn't real, he's just a part of this terrifying, glorifying dream that's become the essence of my very existence. I need to get out of the water; I'm in too deep.

I wake up in the morning to the sight of an underdressed mentor sitting in the armchair beside my bed. I wonder, briefly, if he dresses this way on purpose, or if it's become a habit of capitol life for him. But then, I see the dark, exhausted circles under his eyes and any petulant thoughts about Finnick Odair's good looks are shoved from my mind and replaced with concern. In my sleep driven state, I allow myself to lean out and trace a pale finger around the exhausted bruises under his left eye, and I wonder what he'd been up to last night after he put me to bed.

I quickly withdraw my hand at that thought.

"Finnick?" I ask, not really sure what I need to understand.

He does think so, though. "I'm sorry, Annie. I'm guilty. It's not me, it's the capitol, but I can't help it, I'm Snow's puppet…I'm sorry. He's got me on a string."

I don't know what he's talking about, or what brought on this guilty wave of emotion, but I know enough to forge ahead. "What, Finnick? What is it?" I murmur, still not entirely awake.

He comes to sit by me on the bed, and I can feel the muscle toned shape of his thigh through my sheets. I remember that I didn't change out of the costume I wore to the opening ceremony. He carefully brushes a couple of dark, tangled strands of hair out of my face, his eyes concerned.

"I…they….sell me," he whispers. "I'm one of Snow's tools, one of the people he uses to get what he wants…they use me for money, and I haven't seen a penny of what it must cost to spend a night with the glorious Finnick Odair," he says, starting out quietly, then gaining confidence as he finishes in a disgusted tone.

And all I can think is, Oh. I understand now. It fits. The young, beautiful, and victorious tribute from District 4, released into a capitol full of people who're yearning for him, and who are also very, very rich. And the cynically enterprising president of this city knows something: that he's got that young boy's emotional well-being in the palm of his hand. What's the death of a couple of unknown fishermen for the life and prosperousness of the capitol? So Snow threatens Finnick. He doesn't threaten him with his own life, he threatens him with the lives of his family, friends, who knows? Because Snow knows that a victor wouldn't fear death. He knows that a victor would just want to save the people he has left. For all I know, half the capitol's revenue could be based upon the cash that Finnick, and probably other victors like him have brought through….alternative markets.

Disgusting.

"Finnick," I whisper, horrified, terrified, repulsed. "Oh."

"It's not for you to worry about, Annie, sweet, innocent Annie," he tells me. "I didn't mean for you to know. Tributes aren't supposed to know. Forget about it."

I know I won't forget.

"I wanted to coach you…about your training," he says carefully, wearing a poker face that hides most of the tumultuous emotions within him. "You'll need to use this time so you can form alliances with the tributes from the career districts," he says.

I find myself doubtful that they'll want me to join their pack, and I voice these opinions aloud to Finnick.

"No, you made an impact at the opening ceremony," he reassures me, but I can tell he hasn't succeeded in convincing himself. "Just use the skills you've learned at home." I wonder to myself how being able to wield a needle and thread is going to assist me when I'm faced with tributes twice my weight and ten times as strong. People who've been swinging swords or throwing spears their entire lives. I imagine myself as one of the mice on my father's old ship, thrusting a needle in front of me as I scurry about, doing my best not to be trampled by the huge people who run above me, brandishing real weapons with real skill.

"Okay," I say, figuring that having the sword wielding, heavily muscled careers on my side will only be worth the trouble. Finnick seems pleased with this, I can tell by the look in his eyes that he's reassured. He gets up to leave, but then, almost as an afterthought, he leans down and kisses me lightly on the forehead.

"Thanks, Annie."

Once the tingling subsides and I regain functional control of my mind again, I wonder what that was for.

I'm at training. Last night's revelation with Finnick has instilled a new strength in me, I will not be weak. I will stand tall and proud, face the unknown with strength and willingness. I will give these games all that I've got, because it's all that I'll have left. I will not let Finnick Odair down.

I stride purposefully toward the spear station. I've handled a spear before, as well as a trident and a harpoon. I know that I can handle them efficiently, if not proficiently like Finnick and some of the tributes from the other career districts. I carefully aim my spear, and send it into the bull's eye of a target about twenty feet away. Too bad the target was one to the left of the one I had initially aimed for.

I get closer, and take a few practice shots until I've gotten used to the weight of the weapon in my hand. Then I try again, sending the spear into the correct target this time. I wonder if the mentors are allowed to watch the training sessions. If Finnick would be proud of my accomplishment.

I continue with my training, taking care to stop at each station and learn as much as I can, because everyone knows I'll need as much help as I can get. I watch the other tributes carefully. Lyme and Tindon, the tributes from district one, in particular. I casually follow them from station to station, leaving shortly after or just before them so I don't look too pathetic.

"Watch it, Tuna Chick," commands Lyme when I accidentally bump her arm when I'm tying a knot. I frown, petulantly allowing myself victorious glory when I see that she's struggling with the same simple knot that I've completed with ease.

"You watch it, rocks," I say, much to the amusement of Tindon. He's managed to tie the simple sailor's knot, but he's done it so tightly that the instructor's resulted to cutting it out of his rope with a knife.

"You might bother to listen to the little fishie girl," he says. "Come with us to go play with the spears," he adds to me.

I walk with them, casting an apologetic glance to the boy from my district, Hali, who's standing by himself at the edible plants station. He generously offers me a grumpy scowl, one that would look appropriate on a large mouth bass, or some other kind of ugly deep sea fish. If I were more sure of my abilities, if I thought I could help him…

I watch in awe as Tindon flings his spear casually at the target, managing an impressively solid stick in the center. Lyme takes her turn with the bow, managing to stick her target from a reasonable distance. I choose to work with the trident, as I'm least likely to humiliate myself with it. And I manage not to do so, holding my own, and excelling in my ability to aim.

After the luncheon will be our private training sessions. The time when we prove to the game makers that we're worthwhile. As a tribute from District 4, I'm expected to score in a respectable range with the career tributes. I watch as Lyme and Tindon both rush in eagerly for their sessions, more than ready to finally enter the arena.

The boy from 2 advances, then the girl. I remember I'll need to learn their names, but I never make the effort. Instead, I'd merely watched in training as they bludgeoned dummy after dummy with weapon after weapon.

When the small, intelligent looking girl from 3 leaves for her session, I realize that it's my turn next. That I'll have to do something, anything, to prove myself. But what can I do?

I rack my brains, trying to think of any skill, any useful talent I might have. I can't find any way that swimming or sewing would impress anyone…

But then the attendant returns from the room and beckons me in. The room is an enormous stadium, with what looks like a gym in the center of escalated rows of seats. The seats are all empty, but for the balcony where the game makers are seated, gorging themselves on an enormous feast.

I pause, carefully making eye contact with the one in the middle. He nods at me to begin.

Lost, I make my way to the spears. I lodge a few into their targets, but I'm sure that this is nothing spectacular. What little attention I'd been given has now been lost, and I'm struggling to think of a way to regain it.

But then I remember Finnick's trident, and I know the game makers will remember it as well…

If I could only appear adept with it, that might lead them to believe I've got some sort of talent with it similar to Finnick's. I select a trident from an iron rack, testing its weight in my hand. The instrument that looked so elegant at first now seems deadly and frightening. It's heavier than I thought it would be.

I go back to the targets. Just think of it as a spear, I tell myself. First, I throw it. I'm lucky, and I manage to stick one of the targets. Retrieving my weapon, I use it to slice open a few of the dummies. Fish, I think. There's nothing wrong with cutting open a fish. As a finishing touch, I lightly toss the trident back to its place on the rack, struggling to appear at ease with the weapon.

When I look up at the game makers, they're nodding appreciatively as they scribble notes onto little pads of paper the Avoxes have provided. The head game maker looks down at me again and nods, excusing me.

Finnick finds me as soon as I step out of the elevator and onto our floor. He pulls me inside and hugs me, looks me over.

"I'm alright, Finnick," I protest.

He blushes, taken aback, then makes a brash attempt to cover his tracks. "I wasn't sure you'd make it back alive."

I frown, pulling away from him. "I did fine."

"I see that," he allows.

I still frown.

"I need to coach you for your interview."


	3. Chapter 3

**FINNICK & ANNIE **

**PART 3**

ENTER THE GAMES

**A/N: Of course, I have to give you my disclaimer. I'm not an amazing, new york times best-selling author (sadly). But anyways, here goes for part three! It's hard keeping Annie in character, especially when she's got to be strong to become a victor. So, the point here, is that I'd really like some good reviews, both to help me write, and to remind me that I have amazing readers.**

**I REALLY hope you like it. **

I didn't listen when Finnick tried to coach me. Mostly, I just looked at his eyes, admiring the way they match the ocean in their swirly blueness. They could be so stormy, like the waves of a tsunami, or they could be deep and beautiful and concerned and caring just like the sea on a calm, sunny summer day.

Drin dresses me up like a ghost again, I'm beginning to detect a recurring theme. My hair is woven into intricate patterns that fall around my shoulders, glinting with the little bits of silver and gold he's braided in. My dress is tealish and filmy and long, it the train drags far behind me and the hem tangles around my ankles when I walk.

I'm herded into a large chair on a stage with a polished wooden floor.

I know enough now not to look up, that I'll see the cameras that remind me so much of some sort of gruesome creature from the deep sea. I focus on my fingers, forcing myself to be strong the way everyone needs me to be. I cannot drown now.

Cautiously, I observe the selection of other tributes. Lyme and Tindon are seated at the left side of a semicircular arrangement of armchairs, and the small pair from 12 sit trembling on the other side. It appears almost as though the arc ranges through rankings, with the strongest, most athletic tributes lounging at one end, the quality decreasing until the arc comes to the tiny, blue faced tributes from 11 and 12.

Caesar Flickerman walks jauntily onstage. His signature color is a deep, forest green that reminds me of the darkest seaweed that occasionally washes ashore. He treats the audience to his signature smile, the wide one that shows all of his bleached teeth. "Welcome," he declares in a rich, automatically enhanced voice. "To the 69th Hunger Games!"

I shudder, not feeling welcome at all.

Lyme approaches the sparkling host at his invitation, I remember that she's fast and merciless with a sword. She smiles haughtily, her teeth sparkling as she seats herself cross-legged on the velvet sofa facing Caesar.

"Good evening, my dear," greets Caesar, when Lyme smiles saucily in the direction of the cameras that I'm still avoiding. She is not afraid, she is floating. The girl from 1 exudes confidence in every way.

They chat about Lyme's impressive training score, her opinion on the rest of the tributes, and the reasons why she volunteered. At first I tried to pay attention to her impressive, arrogant and flirty approach, but as the first three minutes of the program dragged on, I began to struggle under pressure, fighting to keep my head above water. Why did everything have to be so shiny?

I bury my face in the folds of my dress, trying to avoid all of the imposing, glinting lights reflecting off of the various plastic surfaces. It's gruesome, sitting there immobile, waiting to be scrutinized by the millions who hold your life in their hands. It reminds me of the riptide that sometimes haunts our peaceful beaches, and the way it pulled me in once. The gushing torrents of water had buffeted me against the seafloor, tossing me about like a rag doll. Those currents were menacing and controlling just like the capitol.

But then I remember that I escaped those cruel waters. Maybe, just maybe, I can escape the capitol's wrath as well.

The next eight interviews go by painfully slowly, and then Caesar calls me up.

I stand slowly, not trusting my equilibrium as I carefully approach the luxurious couch. I fold my feet behind me as I curl up on the soft couch, attempting a smile at Caesar.

"Annie…welcome to the games," he says amicably.

"Hello, Caesar," I say, too quietly. I'm being overly formal, tearing the new cuticles off my fingers as I finally turn to face the studio audience. Immediately, a hundred cameras zoom in on my face.

I begin to panic, but then I remember all of the people that I can't let down, including myself. Taking a deep breath, I search out Finnick's unforgettable face in the crowd. He looks kindly at me, giving me an encouraging nod. It's as though he's pleading with me to do well, like he needs me to be successful.

I hope I can achieve that for him.

"So, Annie," says my host, and I can tell that he's warmed up to the rhythm of the interview by now. "I'm sure we'd all like to know what it's like to have the glorious Mr. Odair as a mentor."

I swallow nervously, not quite sure how to answer that question. I pause for a moment, trying to think clearly as the country awaits my answer with baited breath. "Finnick has been perfect. I depend on him completely, and I trust him with my life."

The audience coos sadly, and I can tell that even though it wasn't the best answer I could have given, it was alright.

Caesar smiles at me. "What about you, Annie? Are you confident in yourself?" he questions me, eyebrows slightly raised.

"I have to be, don't I?" I say. "I can't let everyone who's depending on me down. I mean, they all trust me. So I guess I sort of have to also." I know it's a convoluted sentence, but it's as truthful as I can be, and I think my words have had the proper effect on the people of the capitol.

"Yes, and kudos on your excellent score in training," he says, referring to the eight that I'd barely managed. "Any hints as to what you did in there?"

"Well…I think it's supposed to be secret," I say. "But it wouldn't have been possible without Finnick."

Caesar smiles encouragingly at me. "Ah, yes. Mr. Odair can be quite extraordinary, can he not?"

I nod, blushing a little bit. I'm sure the audience will love this.

"Anyways, Annie, thank you, good luck, and may the odds be ever in your favor!" he calls out, as the buzzer rings to signify the end of my interview.

Released from the gripping stress that had become me, I can relax. I spend the rest of the interview in a daze. I look up and search out Finnick's face, and then our eyes never leave each other's.

When the program is finally over, I rush into my mentor's arms, sobbing. I cry, tears staining my dress and his see through, silky shirt.

"Sh, Annie," he says, soothing me.

"I'm scared," I whisper. I can't bear to think that the games are tomorrow, that I might die in less than twenty four hours and leave everyone I care for behind.

"I know," he says into my hair. "So am I."

He carries me into the elevator and onto our floor. Several attendants rush to his side, holding planners and phones, reminding him of the 'engagements' he has tonight. "Mr. Odair, you're scheduled to meet a Madam Alexis…" they say, but he pushes past them, shaking his head.

"Not tonight."

I clutch his shoulders, hiding my face in his shirt. I don't know where he's taking me, I just know that I want to stay by his side.

When he finally sets me down, uncurling my fingers from his shirt, I see that I'm in his room, on his bed.

"Annie," he whispers, pulling the doublet up to my chin. "You are so special. And I am so afraid for you."

I look up into his marvelous sea green eyes and at his perfect bronze colored hair. His eyebrows are furrowed, and I realize that Finnick Odair is genuinely worried for me.

"You're special, too." I tell him. "You're like home. Like the ocean and the water and the beach and the sunshine. You're like when you hold a seashell to your ear and you can hear the waves crashing on the beach."

He smiles sadly, and tentatively reaches out to touch my cheek with his thumb, then wraps his hand into my hair.

Suddenly he's angry. "You have to come home, Annie. Promise me that you'll come back," he demands. I nod quietly, and he looks reassured.

"Good," he says, lying down beside me and wrapping his arms around my waist. I roll into his chest, hiding from the capitol. He begins to play with my hair, tying it into intricate knots and braids. At last, I fall asleep to the sound of his voice humming the melody of a nursery song we used to sing at home.

When I awake in the morning, I feel peaceful and content the way I only do when I'm in the ocean. Temporarily, I wonder why this is, until I feel the strong arms around my waist and the toned body that's curled around mine. Finnick Odair.

I wonder how much this would cost for anyone else, until it occurs to me that my price has been my own life.

And with the realization of his presence, I'm forced to recall exactly where I am and why I'm here. And that in less than an hour, I'll be aboard a hovercraft to take me to the arena where I'll be forced to fight for my own life.

These thoughts tarnish the happiness that was brought on by Finnick's presence.

Riding the hovercraft, he never lets me leave his arms. He'd carried me on, set me in his lap, and refused to let me get up, and now he murmurs unintelligible things into my hair as I grasp a glass of water in a white knuckled hand.

"Finnick-" I begin, but he cuts me off.

"You really should drink that, Annie," he scolds me. Indulgently, I take another sip before beginning again.

"I wanted to tell you that I'll miss you."

He frowns, and I tentatively trace the creases between his eyebrows with my forefinger. "No, you won't," he says sternly. "Because you're going to win, Annie." His voice is demanding, it doesn't allow me to think otherwise, let alone contradict him.

When Finnick Odair promises something, it usually happens.

We sit in silence for the rest of the ride, and I just try to absorb as much comfort as I can from him. He's my seashell, I use him to hear the ocean that I've missed so badly.

Finally, I have to leave the hovercraft and descend into the catacombs with my stylist. Just before I go, Finnick suddenly grabs me and kisses my cheek, sending an electric current through my body. First he was gentle, but next he urgently kisses my lips, fiercely. I wind my fingers into his bronze hair, kissing him back just as passionately.

I know now that I've got to come home.

Drin dresses me in soft leather boots, cream pants and a loose fitting green shirt, the typical wardrobe of the tributes. It's only ever different when we're forced into a truly extreme environment, and so I take comfort in this small thing. I'd been terrified that I'd ascend to the cornucopia, only to find myself surrounded by gigantic mountains.

As I'm about to step onto the metal plate that sends me upwards into the arena, Drin pulls something small from his pocket and presents it carefully to me. It's a beautiful abalone shell, deep black on the outside and smooth and pearly green on the inside. There's a small hole drilled at the skinnier end, and it's affixed to a leather cord which Drin carefully knots around my throat.

"Finnick wanted you to have it. It was his token when he was tribute, he thought it fitting to give it to you."

I'm shocked. I remember the necklace now, the way fourteen year old Finnick Odair had rubbed the edges as though seeking luck late at night as he fought his way to glory.

"Thank you," I whisper reverently. It couldn't be better.

Finally, I place my feet in the center of the launch pad and stand tall, with my chin up like Finnick told me as the glass slides up around me.


	4. Chapter 4

**FINNICK & ANNIE**

**PART IV**

**A/N: Well, here it is. And Annie enters the arena (cue a dramatic theme song, like Beethoven's fifth or something). It wasn't easy writing her into the arena, but I resisted the temptation to switch to Finnick's point of view, because that's not what I wanted this story to be about. So, I hope you like it (and if you do, review!)!**

**Oh, and I almost forgot. I'm not Susanne Collins, or any other rich, talented author, for that matter. **

**Voila! **

We're given a minute to take in our surroundings before the cannon fires and the games begin. First, I appraise the cornucopia, seeing the various weapons and supplies stacked at its mouth. As a tribute from the career district, I know that I'll be expected to obtain a weapon and remain with the tributes from districts 1 and 2, at least until later in the games.

Next, I observe the topography. We've been placed in a small, rectangular valley that's lined by thick trees on either side. Directly ahead of me, and behind the Cornucopia, is an enormous cement structure. At first, I don't recognize it, but when I contemplate the shape of the valley and the position of the huge wall, I realize that it's a dam. I wonder why anyone would want to keep the water out?

Whatever the answer, there must be a lot of it behind that dam, because it's truly enormous.

Next, my vision sweeps over the tributes at my sides. Once again, we're arranged in an arc, and the Cornucopia's at the center. However, we're scattered about in a random order this time, like a mixed up school of fish after a storm. About three tributes to my right is Lyme, and Tindon's on the far side of the semicircular shape. I know that the smart decision will be to reach his side as soon as possible in the hopes of finding some sort of protection, I know I can't expect that from Lyme.

The gong goes off, it rings loud and clear, echoing throughout the valley and leaving me stunned for a second before my reflexes kick in and I'm following my instincts.

I sprint, dodging the other, larger tributes who've surrounded the large golden sculpture. I glance around, panicking, as I try to find my allies.

Somewhere in all the confusion, I realize that I can't depend on them. The only person in this arena who I can truly trust is myself, and so I've got to take action.

I dive away from a spear someone's aimed at me, it grazes my arm but I'm otherwise unharmed. It wasn't an exceptional throw, fishermen from my village could easily thrust a spear with more force than that.

I dodge and twirl, evading knives and swords. What I really need is a weapon, then maybe I could begin to defend myself…

At the feet of a swarm of people fighting for the prize loot that's piled in the mouth of the cornucopia, I see my savior. It's nothing fancy, just a simple spear with a wooden shaft and a medium weight head, but it's still a weapon. Back home, I could feed myself for a week with this, spearing fish straight from the ocean.

However, someone else also had their eye on my spear. They're not particularly large, but something about the mad glint in their grey eyes tells me that they've been driven mad with the pressures of the arena. Warns me that they're not going to be squeamish about murdering me.

I turn, trying to escape the grip of their large, grimy hands, but the boy is ready for me. He turns with me, reaching out and gripping my neck with one hand. I can't evade them now. I use what freedom of motion I've still got to turn and spear him, much the way I would spear a salmon or cod. Only it's a person.

He chokes, and dark red spews from his mouth, staining my shirt. His eyes aren't mean any more, now they're terrified. He no longer looks like an enemy, but a simple child, hardly different from me, who's been thrown into this arena against his will. Who had a family and friends…

My head spins and I threaten to black out as I dislodge the head of my spear from his body. Other tributes are closing in on me now, but I can't focus on them, I'm seeing double and it's like I'm drowning again. I can't breathe…

I remember the salty, icy water stinging my eyes and my nose and my throat, being scraped against the rough seafloor. How I'd lost my sense of equilibrium, and had no idea which direction was up. How my vision had distorted until I couldn't distinguish what was real and what wasn't…

I see double, then triple. The large bodies loom above me, but somehow I manage to escape. The feeling of the hot, dry sand beneath my fingers reassures me, and I stumble to my feet and evade the knife of an enormous, heavyset redheaded girl.

I stumble toward the Cornucopia, it's the only thing that's solid in my vision. After what seems like hours but could only have been seconds, I'm touching it's smooth, metallic surface as I grab a backpack and a belt of knives.

But then, shadows fall around my shoulders and I sense the presence of someone who's definitely not my ally standing behind me. I try to jump aside, but I'm not fast enough and something huge and hard, I think it's the tribute's hand, is crushing my skull. My ears ring for a moment, like the sound of a thousand seagulls' wings beating in my head, and then I finally feint.

When I awake, I'm propped against the now cool surface of the Cornucopia, a few feet from where I think I was attacked. I realize the sound that withdrew me from my slumbers must've been cannon fire, because trumpets are blaring and the faces of the dead tributes are lighting up the darkening sky.

I groan, watching twelve dead faces flicker across the false clouds. I know that these faces will be forever burned into my memory, that they'll haunt my dreams for whatever's left of my life. Especially the one I killed.

I remember the sensation of my spear piercing that boy's flesh, and suddenly the rusty stench of the blood that surrounds me is overwhelming. I turn onto my side, choking up bile as I convulse in disgust, gripping my sides as I heave up everything that I'd managed to eat in the last few days. I'm seasick, times ten with an added element of shame and self disgust.

When I can finally trust myself to stand, I wipe my face with the back of my hand and straighten my clothes. I'm lucky in two ways: someone saved me when that boy was about to kill me, and the rest of the careers didn't decide to kill me in my sleep. That means I have allies.

I struggle to stand, my body protests as my legs shake and my head throbs, my knees threatening to give out beneath me. The sensation is odd, I feel like my own sea has turned against me and is trying to kill me, I'm struggling to fight the current. Blood pounds in my ears, and blurry spots cloud my vision. I bring a hand to my temple, it's swollen and probably bruised into a rainbow of colors.

I half walk, half crawl my way to the place where the other careers sit, huddled around a campfire. I shiver, noticing the chill, damp air. A couple, the ones from two especially, are trembling severely and have pulled their arms into their shirts, and most don't look happy. I think of the time my father took me ice fishing high on the northern coast.

We'd left early in the morning on a day sometime in midwinter, bringing my little sister along in tow, even though she was hardly four. We'd sailed our old boat far north along the coastline, travelling farther than I'd ever been before. I remember that was the first time I'd ever seen snow, at first it was light and cool and pleasant, but then it had turned moist and sunken into my clothes, leaving me wet and chilled to the bone; we'd left early for my father feared Dally and I would catch cold from the wetness.

That was absolute paradise as compared to the cold now.

I silently find a place beside Lyme, who doesn't even bother to look my way, as I survey the other careers. I notice Hali's not here…but he's not dead, either. That, at least, saves me a small bit of guilt.

Someone's begun to boil a pot of water, and there's some sort of meat roasting over the hot coals. I wonder if I'll be allowed to share in the food and spoils, or if they'll expect me to fend for myself. If it were up to Lyme and the pair from 2, I predict I'd have been dead in an instant already.

Everyone eats, tearing pieces from the duck like fowl and filling waterskins. I wait until everyone's finished, I know that I have little right to the food. Having grown up in a poor family, I learned at an early age that you don't eat unless you work for it. I'm extremely lucky they've decided to tolerate my presence, I'm terrified that taking food will be too much to ask.

Eventually, however, the gnawing pains of hunger deep in my stomach win out, and I tentatively reach out and tear myself a piece of the duck, watching everyone's reactions carefully. Tindon has an arm placed protectively on Lyme's shoulder, as if he's holding her back, and the boy from 1 looks furious but doesn't make a move.

I'm safe, for now.

I curl up after I eat, away from the warmth of the fire and far from the other tributes. I don't trust them, and they don't trust me. I decide that distance is my friend.

The night becomes more and more brutal, I curl up, wrapping my arms around myself as I try to keep warm. I massage Finnick's thin token between my thumb and forefinger, rubbing it until it's heated from the friction. I wish Finnick were here beside me, with his strong, protective arms and his amazing qualities that remind me so much of the ocean.


	5. Chapter 5

**ANNIE & FINNICK **

**CHAPTER 5**

**Disclaimer: Honestly, do I look or sound at all like a rich, award-winning author? I didn't think so. **

**A/N: Well, here it is. And, I just realized how long it took me to update that one. Hehe, only a couple weeks, right? Sorry. So, here's the next little bit of Annie, and the awful perils she faces in her games. =) And this is the part that I recommend that my lovely readers leave some reviews – it makes me happy, and is very motivational (motivation = faster updates). **

**Now that I've begged and groveled for reviews, I can tell you this: **

**ENJOY. **

I awake in the morning to a scorching heat, the sun beats down on my back and I can already tell it's burned red. I try to open my eyes, and find the glare of the sun is incredible. I squint my eyes, trying to get my bearings, as I look around in confusion.

I could have sworn…

I recall regretfully that I'm a contestant of the Hunger Games, that Finnick and my father and Dally are unreachable. I remember the events of the previous day, the concussion and the cold. The cold seems so unreal now that I'm faced with this astronomical heat, I wonder if I imagined the brutally chill temperatures last night…

I have been told I have an expansive imagination…

As I stiffly sit up and look around, I realize that I'm alone. The careers have left, undoubtedly in the hopes of catching a few of the weaker tributes early on, leaving me alone and unprotected…except for my spear.

Thankfully, they've left me at least that much in the name of protection.

I choose to take advantage of the situation. The supplies are unguarded, and I'm alone and virtually unsuspected. An opportunity such as this will not likely present itself to me again.

Carefully, with trembling fingers, I begin to sift through the various supplies we've gained from the Cornucopia. There's a little water, but not much. I expect we've been using a nearby water source, maybe an overflow from the dam. We're stocked with dried fruit, but no protein. Obviously, the game makers will be trying to draw us together as we hunt. And weapons. There is nearly an entire arsenal here, not to mention what they took with them. I know I can't effectively wield a sword, and I'm hardly efficient with the knives. I haven't got a chance throwing them. To be honest, just the sight of those weapons makes me apprehensive.

I tentatively select a few spears, and fill a black backpack with a bottle of water, a small portion of leftover duck, and a few packs of dried fruit. It's not enough that it'll be noticed as missing this early in the games, but it could keep me alive for a few days, if I'm careful.

I begin hiking in the direction opposite the careers' footprints, concealing my tracks with branches off the nearby trees. However, when I look back down into the valley, I see the camp, sitting there so vulnerably. I remember what I'd thought earlier; it's not likely I'll be in such an advantageous position again.

By now, my heart threatens to burst free of my ribcage as it hammers within me. My hands shake even harder as I fumble with the zipper of the pack, and take out the book of matches.

It's not like killing, I remind myself. It's hardly even cruel, for the Hunger Games. But still, it takes everything I've got to strike that match, and toss it onto the pile of sleeping bags. I watch, making sure that the camp catches fire, watching as the sparks begin to spread, creating a blazing inferno. When my eyes begin to sting from the smoke, I turn away, feeling proud of myself. And hoping that Finnick, too, will be proud of me.

As I make my way away from the burning camp, I assess my health. The throbbing in my head has subsided, but it's likely that I've sustained internal damage. However, despite that minor setback, I'm relatively unscathed aside from the scratch on my arm.

I soon realize that surviving on my own is no easy task, I don't refer only to just the difficulty I encounter as I hunt, trying to feed and protect myself. When I'm alone, there's no one there to remind me what's real, and what's not. I struggle with harsh fits of waking somnambulism, as I fight with the nightmares that haunt me, only to awaken and realize that I'm living in another one.

One nightmare, in particular, revisits me, time and time again. It starts beautifully, in an almost comforting way. I'm crouched on the floor of a boat, watching the sparkling waves beneath me. There's a spear in my hand, and I notice that someone's positioned themselves behind me, and they guide my hand as the spear punctures the smooth, slick side of a large salmon. I recognize the hand at the last minute as the same one that led me through the capitol, as Finnick Odair's hand, and then the dream-world shatters. The fish erupts with dark, dark blood that's way too dark, and the water stains a bloody red color, blood pours from Finnick's eyes, and my fingertips are also gushing with the rust-scented liquid. The fish, stiffening in its dead form, transforms into the boy I killed at the cornucopia – but then he's awake and shoving my head into the water, and I'm drowning, drowning, drowning.

This – this is what haunts me.

What IS reality, anymore?

It's about a week later when I awake to the rumbling sound of breaking concrete.

I wonder what this sound is, at first I think I'm dreaming still, but then I recognize the quakes and spasms of the earth to be an earthquake.

I jump to my feet, glancing around wildly. I know enough about water to recognize that it'll take less than an hour to completely fill the valley that we've been enclosed in.

I can already feel my mind begin to slip away from me, I begin to hyperventilate. I can't get enough air….memories of being trapped beneath water threaten to completely engulf my sanity.

Panic engulfs me. I run, no more than an instinctive animal trying to find high ground. My thoughts are distorted, my mind has become a whirlpool. And then the water breaks through what's left of the concrete dam.

It happens fast, the valley fills quickly. Already it's filling the dry creek beds, carving paths between the trees. My life begins to flash before my eyes, quickly.

The boat. My family. Fish. The red scrape on my knee. Drowning. Drowning. Drowning.

I'm bogged down in that memory, thinking of the way the waters, the same waters that were always my ally, attacking me, throwing me against the seafloor, filling my nose, and clouding my vision. The way I'd been tossed to and fro, the terror.

But then the memory changes, and something happens that I'm sure didn't happen that afternoon with my father.

I see a golden, godlike figure swimming toward me in powerful strokes. When he gets closer, I recognize him. It's…Finnick Odair. His strong arms wrap around my eight year old torso, pulling me out of the water and depositing me on the warm sand.

Finnick.

I remember my mentor.

And I remember that he's looking after me.

That he's doing all he can to keep me alive.

I force myself to focus, concentrating my thoughts on survival, the way he would want me to.

I know three things. I know that I can swim, probably better than anyone else in the arena. I know that there is plenty of water for me to swim in. And I know that maybe this water is an advantage to me.

Taking a deep breath, I do what my mentor would want, and I walk toward the waves that are crashing through the sparse forest and tearing the trees from the ground.

Swim parallel to the shore, Annie, I think, stepping toward the water.

As the first wave washes up around my knees, relief replaces the terror that's consumed me. When the next surge rushes toward me, I'm ready, and I dive forward.

Keeping an image of Finnick's glorious face in my mind, I allow the current to take me where it will.

I know how to keep my head above the water, and the strong current keeps me afloat. I'm glad I succumbed to the water, its cool, gentle pressure against my body soothes away my aches and pains. I had forgotten that this is where I belong, that I'm a fisherman's daughter from District 4. I suppose an arena could do that to you – take away your identity, and turn you into something no more than a frightened animal, struggling to stay alive. As I look upward into the sky, I see that the grey clouds that have gathered overhead are breaking – letting out torrents of large, fat raindrops that fall freely onto my uncovered face.

I lick my lips, the water is tangy and salty, sort of like the waters of my ocean, but with a different undertone. Something metallic, probably from the thousands of pumps regulating the water in this arena.

I'm not sure how long I've been drifting, I've lost sense of time. But something in the water ahead of me shocks me out of the calm, almost blissful reprieve I had been enjoying.

It's the dark, red stain of blood. It mars the beautiful, reflective surface of the steadily running water, spreading out further and further, its circumference growing larger and larger. In my surprise, I gasp, only to inhale a lungful of the water – the water that's been tainted with blood.

I cough, choking, as I try to eliminate as much of the poisonous fluid from my body. My ears ring, and I forget to hold my head above water. My sense of tranquility is completely gone now, it has been chased away by the taste of another child's blood in my mouth.

I wonder, does this make me a cannibal?

But now I'm underwater, with hardly half a breath of air to fill my lungs. I'm weak and tired from a lack of food, I'm dizzy and disoriented. I'm sure my sanity is highly questionable. Tendrils of red drift lazily around me, small particles spreading out to color even more of the water that was once my safety.

As my small store of oxygen depletes, my mind is assaulted by memories from my childhood, playing before my open, stinging eyes in snatches.

Swimming. I remember thinking that swimming was good, that I like the ocean. We were friends.

Fish on the deck of our boat. They smelled awful. Someone's strong arms, teaching me how to paddle. Running, toward the beach. Wanting to try swimming on my own. The glistening waves, the way they beckoned me, flashing showily in the sunshine. Jumping. The water on my toes, swimming again. Strength, the way I could propel myself. Looking back at the dock, it was far away. Nervousness, my father had told me to stay close to shore. Then – a rush of water. Big, a rip tide was what the fishermen liked to call these waves. Gasp – I had gasped. I recall the burn of salt water on my throat and in my nose. Being underwater, realizing I was stuck. The alarm, when I realized that I couldn't breathe. Trying to swim upward, to the dismal sunlight that shone overhead. Then the rough sea floor, scraping my body. No breath.

That was when I thought I might die, I remember. But a strong pair of arms had reached out to me, grabbing me first by the wrist and then by the hair. Later, I realized that they were my father's arms.

But now, my father isn't here with me. He's long gone…I won't see him again. But there is someone who I might see again, if I live. Someone who I think would be there to pull me out of the water if I could. Who I know would keep me afloat.

The seashell. My favorite part of the beach.

Finnick. Thinking his name, imagining his sea green eyes and messy bronze-ish hair, and praying to him, I manage a few good, strong strokes. I propel myself upward, and am rewarded with a breath of air.

I don't allow myself to sink again, I know that there are no malevolent waves to take me. I remember that I am from District 4, and that I can swim. That everyone's expecting me to swim.

When I breach the surface, I swim as hard and as fast as I can away from the sight of the blood that frightened me so badly. I need to escape that evil place, before it contaminates me. I wonder why I didn't hear the cannon. Whoever lost all that blood probably also lost a life.

Finally I see it: the lone tree that's tall enough for its upper branches to clear the water.

I drag my cold, shivering body over its coarse bark, pulling myself onto one of the lower branches, where I slump against the trunk, exhausted. It's all I've got the strength left to do to clutch the soggy branches for all that I'm worth.

I've drifted off to sleep, my fatigued, malnourished body struggling to recuperate from the traumas of the previous day. I'm awakened, though, by a dull, muted thud. My eyes flicker open, and immediately come to rest on the little silver parachute that's landed beside me.

Gripping it in trembling fingers, I struggle to unwrap my gift. Inside the small box, I find a loaf of bread, green with seaweed the way they make it back home. It's still warm, and dry. It's accompanied by a short, silver knife, and a piece of paper that's been folded meticulously into the shape of a rose.

After rubbing my hands together vigorously to dry them, I slowly unfurl the paper.

It's a handwritten note, I can feel the imprints the ballpoint pen made on the thin paper. It says just one word. My name.

I smile inwardly, cradling the paper close to my heart. I tuck it cautiously away into my inner pocket, where it'll be protected from the floodwater around me. There's no question in my mind who wrote those letters.

Finnick is watching over me.

Next, I slowly slice the bread. It's delicious, crispy on the outside and soft on the inside. My starved stomach welcomes the carbohydrates, and my lonely heart cherishes the thought behind the gift.

I allow myself to sleep again, my resolve strengthened to a point I don't think it's ever been at before. For the first time, I truly imagine myself winning – going home to my district and the ocean that I've learned to love.


End file.
